Music to My Ears
by r4d1c4lization
Summary: When John Egbert first meets the blonde boy in the hotel, he doesn't think much of him. But then he just keeps reappearing, and he's always just as annoying. But something about Dave Strider's music is absolutely intoxicating.


It's been three hours.

Three. God-forsaken. Hours.

You hear your dad sigh in frustration as he tosses and turns in his bed next to yours. You wonder why he hasn't called the hotel staff yet to file a complaint, but then you figure it's probably more trouble than it's worth. You try to focus on the task at hand, but your mind kept shifting its focus to the never-ending stream of music permeating the walls and finding their way into your ears.

You've never missed the Pokémon battle music so much.

You hiss at the 3DS in your hands as a final blow is delivered to your Dragonite. You slam it shut, dropping it beside your bed as forcefully as you dare to treat it (which is pretty forceful, considering the damn thing is made of pure Nintendium). After a few minutes of lying in bed and listening to the music that continued to play, you eventually got up and started toward the door.

"Where are you going, son?"

You look back into your dad's tired eyes. You felt bad for him, really; whether he got any sleep or not, he had to be up and out the door in about five hours. You feel a wave or irritation wash over you as you realize that some guitar-playing douchebag woke him from his well-deserved (and desperately needed) rest.

"I'm gonna get a snack from the vending machine downstairs," you respond. Your stomach growls as if on cue, and you smile bashfully.

Your dad sighs. "Try not to be up too late, will you? I'd like you to be awake before I get back tomorrow afternoon."

You nod before opening the door and stepping into the bright hallway. It seemed so small when you had arrived earlier in the day, but now that the hustle and bustle of people trying to find their rooms had died down, the halls seem ridiculously huge. You trace the floral patterns on the carpet with your toes as you make your way toward the elevator. The sound that had been plaguing you all night got louder, you noticed, as you approached it. You wondered what room it was coming from, and if you would notice when you passed it. That would make filing a complaint much easier.

Lost in your thoughts and design-tracing, you almost didn't notice when you saw him.

You step into the small lobby-like area where the elevators were located, and realize that you aren't alone. In the corner, hidden from sight until you actually entered the area, was a blonde boy holding a guitar. Sunglasses cover his eyes – and most of his face – so you find it hard to discern his expression or whether or not he's looking at you. He strums the guitar almost absentmindedly, nodding his head with the beat. You're sure you've heard this song somewhere before, but you can't think of the name.

_"So, you're the douchebag who's been keeping everyone up all night."_

You want to say that so badly. But the words just won't come. You choke on them when they start to, and your body rocks gently to the tune despite you not wanting it to. You get lost in the music, trying to think of the name that goes with it. You want to feel frustrated that nothing is coming to you, but you don't feel anything except the time of the music and the air of calm that seems to have swallowed you and numbed the rest of your senses. It takes a moment of swaying off-beat to realize that the stranger is slowing down, strumming the last few chords dramatically before letting the last one resonate. You don't know how long you've been standing here, but you quickly turn away from him to press the button to the elevator, hoping that maybe he didn't notice.

He plays idle notes, occasionally adjusting the tuning on the string he had been fiddling with. You can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, but you pray that it's just your imagination. About the time the elevator lets out a small _ding!_ and the door opens, he finally speaks. "That was the longest goddamned wait for an elevator I've ever seen."

You huff, stepping through the doors and pressing a button. You aren't sure what button you pressed. You're pretty sure it was 1, since you know where the first-floor vending machine is, but you very well could be wrong considering you didn't look. As the doors slide shut, you swear the stranger is smirking at you.

Breaking eye contact (if it can even be called that) with him seems to break a spell, and you suddenly remember how to breathe and move normally. You consider that it may have been rude to entirely ignore the guy, but he was being rude by keeping people awake, so you decide that it's forgivable.

The doors open to reveal a large number 2 painted on the wall, which brings you to the conclusion that you had pressed the wrong button. You step back into the elevator, press the right one, and then promptly make your way to the vending machine to get a snack. It's not until you're back in the elevator on your way up to your room on the 5th floor that you realize that you'll have to pass the boy again. If he's still there, that is. You aren't sure whether you want him to be or not.

Sure enough, as if summoned by your mental mentioning of him, he's there, still tucked away into his corner and strumming at his guitar. Only now, he's humming along with it. You think you can make out some words occasionally, but mostly he seems to be mumbling. It frustrates you. You enjoy music, but you hate when i''s done half-assed. For a moment, you forget that it's so late. You tighten your grip on your Snickers bar and step towards him.

"You mean you had cash all along, and you couldn't reward a guy for a great performance? Damn. That's cold, man."

You freeze, your words caught in your throat. He hadn't acknowledged you at all, or even moved his head like he was looking at you. The sunglasses he was wearing were keeping you from knowing where he was looking at all. Your frustration begins to grow. But he continues to talk before you can.

"It's no wonder artists are starving. I provide you with beautiful serenades, and for what? Stares and glares, so chilly they snare me as you say to beware of the—"

"Are you seriously rapping while playing an acoustic guitar?"

There's a small hitch in his rhythm, but he tries to play it off and continue playing as if nothing happened. "Damn. You're right. It doesn't work."

You notice a slight hint of a southern accent in his voice then that you didn't hear before. You wonder if you just weren't paying attention, or if he had legitimately changed how he was speaking. "Whatever," you finally say, frowning. "Either way, I'm not giving you money for keeping me awake at three in the freaking morning. My dad has a conference in a few hours, you know. You're kind of being a dick."

His hand stops moving. The chord resonates for a few seconds before he presses his hands against the strings, cutting it short. You get that feeling again, like something is burning holes in your skin, and you're sure he's staring at you. You begin to feel nervous, and position yourself so that you can run down the hall to your room if he makes any kind of threatening movements. You immediately regret calling him out; you're sure this guy could take you in a fight. Hell, anyone could.

But his response is very different from what you expect. After staring for what feels like hours, he pulls an iPhone from his pocket and stares at it for a few seconds, before whispering "holy fucking shit." It's hard to tell because of his sunglasses, but based on the slight nodding of his head, you think he's glancing between your face and the phone. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he places his guitar carefully into the case, zips it up, and throws it over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. Didn't know it was so late. Tell you old man to get some shut-eye, and good luck at his conference or whatever."

And then he was gone. Well, sort of. He strode down the hallway at a normal walking speed, but with legs as long as his, the pace was rather quick. You wonder if his apology was sincere or not before finally calling after him. "Hey!"

He turns and faces you, and you're still not entirely sure where he's looking. You pull your last quarter out of your pocket and flip it towards him. He catches it with ease, and then he stares at it for a moment before smirking. He gives you a sort of half-wave, the kind the "cool kids" in high schools do for acquaintances, and then turns and continues on his way.

You sigh and trudge back to your room. When you open the door, the light sound of snoring tells you that your dad has already fallen asleep. You drop your candy bar on the nightstand and crawl into your bed, soon drifting to sleep with the unnamed tune playing in your head.


End file.
